


Someone Who Wanted To Be Free

by asami_lys



Category: Enderal (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mystery, Other, Spoilers, oneshot colletions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2019-11-15 05:02:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18067085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asami_lys/pseuds/asami_lys
Summary: 'Lets begging with a question. It might sound simple to you at first. But I pray for you to think about it.What distinguishes a free man from a slave?' Enderal, intro.





	1. Chapter 1

Story one

Silence covered the forgotten city in the clouds. Each wall, each corridor, each corner lay silent. For years now, the only life remaining in the ancient city was a man once called the Prophet. A life long forgotten.

It had not always been like that.

Years ago, two souls had inhabited the Starcity. They had fled form Enderal. Run away some would say. Hope and despair in their heart. A promise that one day the High Ones would be defeated. But not in their time.

The Prophet had had the last dream about his childhood on the day they arrived at the Starcity. It had been raining in his dream. No Daddy. No Mammy. No sister. No crucified bodies. No horses by the burned house. No smock. No song of birds. Just the sound of rain. And for some reason, the pouring rain only made the silence more intense. More permanent. He had walked the way up the hill. To his house. And he say it. The one who stood by his side in the final moments. Before the final decision had been made.

Jespar Mitumial Dal’Verak.

They had spoken through many nights. They had sheared ideas, plans, dreams. They came to know each other in such depth. To the point when words would not be necessary. Just a look, a smile, a forwn.

Although, not everything was happiness and contentment.

There were dark moments too.

The Prophet kept wondering if his decision had been the right one.

‘Was there ever a right decision?’ The mercenary had questioned.

Through the nights they had speculated how the world was doing. Did the Cleansing already end with life? Was it still happening?

They could not hear a sound. Everything was clam and serene in the forgotten city in the clouds.

And it would be for many years. More than the Prophet would ever like to admit. More than any of the two would want to think.

‘Do you regret it? Would you have liked to stay and fight? Even with the knowledge that probably, even if I did escape, the High Ones would triumph? Would your death be necessary?’

The Prophet at replied that many deaths were not necessary, yet they still happened.

But the decision had been made.

There was no returning.

There was only waiting.

Waiting for a time to finally start over. To let the new kind of man understand what the High Ones were and how to not let them win.

But the waiting would be too long. Long and lonely, he thought, eyes watching the sun raise. Too lonely.


	2. Chapter 2

Story Two

‘Did you ever wondered why you were chosen?’

The blue lights – Aurora Borealis had Jespar once called them – adorned the night sky. The Prophet never got tired of them. They were magical. They were eternal.

Why was he chosen? He would like to know the answer too. He would like to question the Veiled Woman. He would have liked to ask so many questions.

Why him?

Why Sirious?

Why the Beacon?

Why the Echo?

Why?

‘ _...Suddenly you, the fugitive_ _u_ _rchin, becomes mankind's salvation. And suddenly, just like that, out of nowhere, you can perform feats others would require decades to master. Even better, you're one of the emissaries. You can hear the Echo of the future. But stil_ _l_ _... you never asked yourself: Why?_ ’

Now it was too late. Now there would be no answers to his questions.

Yet, maybe, the question that kept lingering in his mind was why could he not save his dear friend.

Calia Sakaresh.

The girl did not deserve to die.

Nightmares still hunted him. Each night since their escape, the Prophet kept dreaming about the Sun Temple. About Calia, his so dear friend who deserved more that the death she had. If he had arrived sooner. If he had teleported faster maybe she would still be alive.

Malphas knew he tried. Even when her body lay dead, her chest no longer moving, he had grabbed her. He said there was hope. But not for her, not all of Enderal… and not for the rest of the world.

Was there really hope?

The Prophet hoped so. He refused to believe his friends and innocent people died in vain.

Why was he chosen? He just had wanted to be free.


	3. Story Three

Story Three

As moons passed, the two souls became more and more close. Solitude was dangerous. One could get used to it or go insane because of it. To them, it was a mix of both. For the first mounts, each kept to themselves during the day. Jespar seemed contentment in exploring the various levels of the City. The Prophet took that time to read and gadder notes about the other civilizations. About spells, the Cleansing, the technology that kept the city floating.

He never found anything about why the people of the city left. There was no trace either. No diary, no note, no testament. It was as the Black Guardian had said, they just _vanished_.

On one expedition into the depth of the City Jespar found a large supply of food. What looked like a spell, kept it preserved and fresh. At the surface, on a far side, they found what seemed to be a garden for magical ingredients and food.

In a way it seem like the City was waiting for them. As absurd as it sounded.

Yet the excitement came to pass. When every corner and corridor of the city had been explored and each book read, time slowed down. And it was that time that showed the two of them that friendship can either evolve or break. It can turn into something magical and warm. Or create a wall so tall and large that seemed to have no end.

The nightmares, even though now not so constant, still haunted the Prophet. More nights than he would like to admit, the Prophet had woken drenched in sweat, heart pounding, head heavy. And the silence of the City did not help in easing his mind and heart.

A lonely soul can only take so much suffering.

Slowly, the Prophet got out of his bed, the warm air making it easy to walk barefoot. The soft breeze gently caressed his loose brown hair. He should cut it, it was getting longer and longer. Yet the mercenary seemed to like running his finger over it. A display of affection, the Prophet came to realise and long for. So he kept postponing the cut.

The thought of the other male made the Prophet take a different route from the one he had in mind. He craved company… craved another voice… he craved another warmth.

The journey to Jespar’s room was not long. Even though they decided to sleep in separated rooms due to privacy, the rooms were close. A decision Jespar had made after the third night when, on a stroll, he heard the Prophet whimper, begging for forgiveness.

The mercenary had his back turned to the entrance of the room. Soft breathing filling the small space. Second guessing his decision, the Prophet turned around in order to leave just to have a small question stopping his actions.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’

Blue eyes turned to look at him. Tiredness could be found in them but they were wide awake. As if the mercenary had been waiting for him. Knowing Jespar… he probably had been. For how many nights was the real question.

Without any question or permission – not that there was ever the a need for such between them – the Prophet walked to the double bed and lay down. A warm arm instantly wrapped around his body, pulling him closer. The Prophet lay his head on the bare chest. Jespar was taller than him by centimetres. A tired sigh left the Prophet’s lips making the mercenary smile lightly.

‘Sleep, I will be here when you wake up’.

And for the first time, the Prophet slept. Really slept.


	4. Story Four

Story Four

 

They were friends. The Prophet made it clear on that night in the airship. Jespar had said how important their friendship was to him.

‘ _Despite all the trouble we got ourselves into, I'm glad that ou_ _r_ _paths crossed, for whatever rea_ _s_ _on they did._ ’

The Prophet had said that the feeling was mutual. He had seen the sadness in the mercenary’s eyes. But the later had not argued. The conversation ended on good terms and they proceeded to talk some more before each went their way.

In his mind, the Prophet knew love was not an option. Not when everything in him screamed of death. Somehow, in his bones he knew they would not win, be it against the High Ones or Taranor Coarek.

Romance was just not an option. He could not give his heart to someone, not when he, himself was not someone who could simply put his past behind his back and...move on. He made it look like he did just that, though.

But he did not.

Happiness… love… those where things that did not exist in his house since his Mommy got pregnant. How could he be loved and love back if he simply did not remember _how_?

So, despise his wants, the Prophet kept his desire for the other male hidden. He was more than content in keeping a friendship so dear to him. Same went for Calia. The Prophet knew the girl had grown feelings for him. He could see in how easy she spoke to him, how at easy she seemed to be when he voiced his opinion regarding the monster inside her. How she had confessed that his words had helped her in accepting it.

But the solitude of a forgotten city in the clouds, midnight talks under the stars and the northern lights and sharing of dreams just broke the barrier he so desperately built.

‘We have been sharing a bed for over two months. Maybe it is time for us to come to terms with our feelings.’

The Prophet had said he never thought Jespar to be the romantic type. The mercenary simply shrugged his shoulders, a devil grin playing on his lips.

‘I never persuaded you on the airship because I knew our views were not the same. You see, _I just don't think it would work. I'm dif_ _f_ _erent, especially when it comes to love, and if you're like most other, I don't think I could make you happy. Our friendship... it just mean_ _t_ _too much to me to risk it for this._ ’

It was odd but maybe true, he would give Jespar that. His feelings equals.

‘ _I think what I'm trying to tell you_ _is_ _that I've never been a fan of what people call 'relationships'. I'm different when it comes to that, and my... 'way of loving' is not compatible with most people's expectations._ ’

The Prophet had tilted his head at that. Eyes locking on the scar that adorned the left side of Jespar’s face.

‘ _I mean, how can you seriously promise to someone that you'll love him or her forever? That you'll never again desire anyone else? Nobody knows what he's going to think, let alone feel, twenty, ten, heck, even one year from now._ ’

The Prophet had the need to argue but nothing valid had reached his mind. So much could change in a simple day. What they had been through, was proof of it.

‘ _In my experience, emotional bondage was never a good basis for human relationships. If you love someone, let him run free.... because if what you have is true, he'll always come back because he wants to rather than being obliged to._ ’

The Prophet frowned. He could understand those reasons, even relate at some level but it also left him confused. In other words, what Jespar seemed to want is love but without obligations? Without commitment? He voiced his question getting a desperate sigh in return.

‘ _NO! What I want is to not force some idealized model of thought onto something as wonderful as what I feel for you._ ’

It came as a surprise to the Prophet. He knew there was so much more in the mercenary. That the emotions he had seen were just the ice covering the deep waters. And to have Jespar Dal’Varek in some way pour his heart out, explaining his idea of love, of relationships when there was no way either of them would ever have anyone else – mostly because there was no one else living in the Starcity – just showed how much Jespar was desperate for love, for showing what was in his heart but also ready to step back if needed.

The only thing needed was a word from the Prophet and they would remain as they were now.

By the Gods, had they had such talk in the airship… where would they be now? Would they still have fled? Would the Prophet’s sense of honour prevailed? Would life once more have taken from him someone so special?

Such conversation would never had happened under any circumstance. The Prophet was sure. Neither of them was ready back then for it.

‘So, tell me, my Prophet, what is your answer?’


	5. Story Five

Story Five

 

A callous hand run down his back, creating goosebumps. A shiver run over the Prophet’s body, a mix of a whine and a moan leaving his lips. Sleepiness had claimed him for a few hours. The warmth of another body – a body he came to know with his mind and body – lulling him to a dreamless sleep. But Jespar never let him sleep much. Not when the mercenary wanted to have his fill of the Prophet.

They had come to a compromise.

Both understood what lay ahead. This… it would not last. Jespar was mortal and the Prophet was not _alive_ – therefore, it made him immortal.

But they had come to a compromise.

Their hearts wanted the same thing, their bodies fit too well to deny what they seemed to be destined to become.

_Lovers._

‘Come back to me, my Prophet. Let me have what you are willing to give.’

Under the romantic words, cockiness resided. The Prophet new that Jespar loved to tease him with beautiful words and desperate actions. Not for the first time, the memories of talks about the mercenary’s past lovers came to mind. Had Jespar been like this with them? Probably.

Another moan left the Prophet as warm lips traces the muscles of his back. More than willingly, the Prophet turns around to look in the eyes he came to love and adore. Blue as deep waters. The scars that adorned the left side of the handsome face, the story behind it always made him chuckle. Yet now, they made his face mysterious by the candlelight. Shadows dancing in the silver hair.

Lips crashed into his. Urgent, needy, passionate. Everything both were and felt for each other. Hands traces the lines of each body, moans and whispers filled the room. Promises and words of love leaving their mouths and filling their hearts and souls.

Silently, the Prophet prayed – to whatever divinity that still may live – to let him keep the man above him for as long as time would allow.

Yet, time did not seem to want peace for the Prophet. Time once more decided to give and take.

A feeling of something settled on the air. For weeks the mercenary had been strange. The blue eyes the Prophet came to love and seek, dulled. The cockiness and arrogance vanished. Day by day, the man he came to love slipped from his hands. He tried to ask, to understand but the answer was always the same.

‘Do not worry, handsome.’

It should have come as a surprise, but it did not.

He found Jespar on the same place he did when they fled to the Starcity. Sitting, watching the sunset, head resting on the cold stone. A black bottle by his left side. His mind knew what had happened yet his heart refused to believe what his eyes saw.

Slowly, the Prophet made his way to the mercenary, carefully kneeling by the still body. Blue eyes glued to the orange and red sky.

‘Beautiful isn’t it?’ Jespar’s voice was nothing more than a whisper ‘I knew coming here was the best choice. I never regretted it. I knew… I knew here you would find the knowledge to defeat the High Ones… to help the next human kind.’

The mercenary turned his head to look at the Prophet. There was a shining in the blue eyes, something that had been missing for days. A small smile gracing perfect shaped lips.

‘ _You were always an idealist._ And I know, you will find a way to kill those bastards. I am sorry I will not be standing by your side when you do. _I_ _love you, you know that?_ ’

Jespar raised his hand in an attempt to caress the face of his lover. He never made it.

 

 


	6. Story Six

Story Six

 

What would Calia say if she saw him so lonely, so desperate for something. The light he once had was gone – had been gone for years. It had been years since Jespar died. The Prophet buried him in the garden, where flowers grow. From time to time the Prophet would talk to the lump of dirt.

He stopped long ago, though.

He once came into contact of a lyric. A song he vaguely remember hearing at Frostcliff Tavern.

(…)

And teardrops were running from her eyes

Yet she thought: "If only I believe,

Time will bring him safely back to me."

(…)

Dark and red glows the winter sky

Two souls divided by the threads of time

(…)

And always, when summer bid goodbye

And moonlight blood-red fell from the sky

His ghost raised from dust-forgotten bones

Searching for what he had lost too soon

(…)

As the years passed by the Prophet learned how to control the spiders and guardians that inhabited the forgotten city in the clouds. The mechanic creature a short of comfort to his soul.

If he had one...

How long had it been since he came to the Starcity? Maybe he should go back to the land… see if something had grown there. But, what if it was still deserted? Would he be able to come back? Would he stay there and wander the land, in hopes that something… someone crosses paths with him?

The decision came one morning. After eating some cheese, the Prophet headed to what he liked to call the library. There he had gathered knowledge about the Beacon, about the High Ones – even though there was not much about said topic -, about the other civilizations. Now all he needed were the pieces to construct the Beacon again.

It was with that thought that the Prophet got inside the capsule and descended to the land. Jespar had been right, the damn landing was a pain in the ass.

As the door opened, silence greeted him. A breeze graces his long loose hair, fresh air filling his lungs. Something felt different.

For what he could see he was in the Goldenforst. The Prophet stared his journey to Ark. There was a need in him to see the city. Would it still be standing? Would it be in ruins. The walk was long, lonely, deserted of life. With each step his heart’s beat grow faster. At the distance he could see the tall walls of Ark.

The face statue of the man that carried the Sun Temple no longer existed, though its arm still hold what rested of the temple.

Trees, dirt, vegetation had grown on the walls of the houses, on the ground.

It was a sight to see. He had known the City in its glory! He had knew each and every face that walked on the streets, the songs played in the inns, the loud voice of the merchants, the distant yet familiar sound of the Myrad in its tower.

His feet carried him once more through its streets, the different districts until they stopped at his old house in the Market. The roof, for what the Prophet could see, had collapsed.

A sound startled the Prophet, making him turn, in his hands fire appearing. A Elk appeared out of nowhere. Its brown eyes lock on the Prophet. A breath left his lungs.

_Life._

There was life in the land! Oh by Malphas, life had grown in the deserted land. Happiness suffocated the Prophet. Hope made tears appear in his eyes and run down his face. Now all was left was the human kind. In some way, it would appear again, would populate the land.

_Hope._

A giggle sounded behind him. Surely his mind was playing games with him. The Prophet turned slowly. A pair of poorly dressed humans stood staring at him. In the man’s arm a small child with the biggest brown eyes he ever saw.

The Prophet feel to the ground, cry and hiccups took over his body.

He had been lonely for so long…


	7. Story Seven

Story Seven

Even though he did everything to teach the new man kind about forgiveness, compassion, love, companionship, they still found ways to create wars, hatred, malice.

The High Ones returned, the Cleansing eminent.

Yet the Prophet was ready. He saw through the game. He understood what revealed before his eyes. And he found a way - as absurd and impossible as it sounded – to destroy the High Ones.

He saw the Veiled Woman again. She did not spoke to him. She did not approach him. She just stared, as if contemplating something precious.

As the High Ones fell, so did he. Soon after the Beacon had done its job in killing the immaterial creatures, his body started to fail. Limb by limb, his body gave out. It took time but it happened.

But he did not feel sad.

He was so tired. Tired of living. He kept his promise to Calia, to Jespar… to those who had believed in him all those millennia ago. Now he could finally rest.

The Prophet made his way to the cliff he met Jespar for the first time. He visited the place he met the Apothecariis, he saw the old temple – he never dared to go back there. A smile graced his lips as the cold breeze ruffled his short hair. His days were over… and he was glad.

(…)

And as she closes her eyes

A ray of light breaks through the sky

And her skin turns into dust

As her soul breaks from its shell

And she joins him in the sky:

Two shapes now freed from grief and time

Then the winds take them away

Through the woods, it's trees its way

And she takes him by his hand

At last, in peace they find their end

(…)

Laugh could be heard from the top of the hill where a house lay. Slowly, the Prophet started the walk he so well remembered. But there was no fear, no despair, no dread in his bones, in his soul.

Just peace.

The flowers were beautiful, the sunset warm, the breeze calming. Horses were pasturing by the house. A totally built house and not the burned one he remembered. There was no smell of smock or rotten flesh in the air. The birds seemed to sing louder yet it did not bother him.

His feet took him to the house at the top of the hill. There, two figures stood. One lazily sitting by the stair while the other taller one had its back to the Prophet.

Calia smiled at him, her deep brown eyes shining with happiness, the smile on her face one he had only seen once.

How was she… here?

‘We have been waiting for you.’

The tall figure turned as soon as Calia words were spoken. Bright blue eyes landed on the Prophet. A grin formed on the lips, just as he remembered.

‘You surely took your time, did you not, handsome?’

The Prophet run. To the warm arms he had longed for. To his soul. Both lovers hugged. Tears run down the Prophet’s face. How he had missed the smell, the warmth, the simple presence of Jespar.

Calia soon joined the two, her hand run over the Prophet’s short hair. One arm let go of Jespar to hold his dear friend. A clumsiness of ‘sorry’ and ‘forgive me’ fell form the Prophet’s lips.

‘I knew you would save us. Your were our hope, Sa’Ira.’

Calia hugged her friend back while Jespar placed kisses on the Prophet’s hair.

‘Welcome home, my Prophet.’

Four gravestones lay at the side of the house on the hill, two stood by the angel at the far right.

 


End file.
